


The Undone and the Divine

by pinkwithoutplot



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood Drinking, Kink, M/M, Read at Your Own Risk, Sam/Male character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-21 23:00:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8263549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkwithoutplot/pseuds/pinkwithoutplot
Summary: Sam is struggling in the aftermath of his demon blood addiction and, with Lucifer sprung, Dean is finding it tough to forgive and forget. When Sam sneaks out one night, Dean fears the worst. But what he sees when he follows his wayward brother comes as quite a shock...





	

  
Dean knuckled the sleep out of his eyes and checked the display on his phone. 2:52am. He felt the absence even before he rolled over and saw the empty bed.  
  
“Sammy?” he said, voice dry and scuffed, needing to be sure even though he knew deep down his brother wasn't just in the bathroom.  
“Where'd you get to now, you stupid sonofabitch?”  
  
He groped about on the nightstand and found the keys to the Impala. It seemed Sam had heeded his warning about taking his baby without permission after the last time. In the quiet aftermath, as Sam held an ice-cold beer to the swelling on his jaw and Dean cradled his aching fist, they both knew it hadn't been about the car at all. It was just easier that way. Sad that even standing on the edge of the end of all things, Dean found it easier to profess his depth of feeling for that old, familiar hunk of metal than his own brother.  
  
Sadder still that Sam — under the pretense of being altruistic — had probably just realized he stood less chance of alerting Dean to his midnight flits without the familiar rumble of the Chevy's engine announcing his getaway.  
  
Dean fought the desire to give in to the hot tears collecting under his lids. He mashed the heels of his palms against his eyes and took a swig from his flask. He pulled his jeans on over his shorts, the fabric still cold and damp from yesterday's rain, and threw his jacket over his sleep-rumpled tee. Snatching up the keys and his phone, he booted up the GPS tracker application and breathed a sigh of relief when the little red dot blinked into life. Sam hadn't gotten far. Dean felt that guilty roil of nausea every time he had to resort to these cheap spy tactics with his brother, but it was a case of needs must.  
  
Dean knew that Sam was well aware he'd fucked up badly this time, and once he'd bled the life out of Ruby, felt her filthy blood coating his hand, Dean had thought maybe there was a tiny chance they could get back on an even keel eventually. Work out how to stop the Devil together and learn to trust each other like they once had.  
  
But Sam was lying to him. Again. Knowing everything he knew, how he was played like a fiddle by that demon bitch, and yet here they were in some fucked up version of Groundhog Day. Sam sneaking out under cover of darkness and Dean following him around like a dickless, cuckolded spouse (and wasn't that an unhealthy analogy), too afraid to demand the truth in case it drove them further apart.  
  
Dean pushed his feet into his boots and headed out for the Impala. The asphalt was still wet and the air was cool and heavy with the smell of ozone. Dean slid into the driver's side, damp denim creaking uncomfortably against the vinyl seat. He rested his phone on the dash and followed the arrow toward the tiny ripples of light on the display which marked the spot where he'd find his brother.  
  
It turned out to be what looked like an old farm, a collection of abandoned buildings and outhouses, a few miles down the road from their motel. Sam had to be in there somewhere. Dean imagined the worst as he cut the engine and closed the rest of the distance on foot. Almost expected to see the compact little body and treacle-dark hair he'd come to loathe more than anything else in the world come into view at any time now, even though he new it was impossible. Maybe Sam had found a substitute. It seemed there was no shortage of cute little brunettes being ridden around topside these days.  
  
As he approached he heard a loud moan, a male voice, Sam's voice, and ducked behind a battered grain silo while he unholstered his weapon.  
  
More indistinct noises, muffled words which might have been pain. They seemed to be coming from the barn opposite and, now that he looked, Dean could see a faint light within. He took a deep breath and started towards the barn, the sick anticipation of what he might see loosening his guts.  
  
He supposed Sam was summoning demons for the sole purpose of draining them. It had been weeks since he'd plunged the knife into Ruby and felt a warm satisfaction as the hilt cracked a few brittle ribs. Weeks since Sam had taken the car and refused to tell where he'd been. Since Dean noticed a tiny smudge of dried blood at the corner of his mouth and jacked his jaw for him. If that was the last time, Sam had to be jonesing pretty hard by now. Maybe he'd gotten careless and conjured something he couldn't handle.  
  
Dean crept up to the door, wood swollen and wedged open. He tried not to think about the way his voice had wavered a few days after he'd hit Sam, as he ripped open his shirt, desperate, and drew the blade down the skin of his left pec, just below his tattoo.  
  
“C'mon, Sam — if you need it so bad. Take it!”  
  
Sam had looked up at him from where he sat on the edge of the single bed, finger tips pressed hard into his thighs, hair damp with sweat, dark hollows under his eyes.  
  
“Jesus. It won't work, Dean. It has to be...y'know. Human blood won't make it stop.”  
  
“But it'll take the edge off right?”  
  
“I...I don't know. Maybe. I don't think so.”  
  
Shameful the way he'd sobbed loud and messy until Sam stood and walked slowly over, shushing him. He carefully trailed a finger down through the clotting line of blood, flinching when the tip accidentally brushed the stiff nipple and Dean's breath hitched. Dean had watched Sam watching him as he brought his finger to his lips and sucked at it. He saw the way something like hope flickered in his brother's eyes, mixed with something altogether less wholesome, as he latched onto the wound and suckled, before it was snuffed out. He gagged a little, gently took his mouth off the parted flesh of his brother's breast. Was left looking older and sicker than he had before. Hungrier.  
  
“Why can't it be enough for you, Sam? Why can't it ever just be enough for you?”  
  
“'M sorry, Dean,” he'd whispered.  
  
“Yeah. Me too, Sam.”  
  
Dean got down low and peered around the door. The voices were clearer now. One was unmistakably Sam, and the other, Dean realized with a mixture of relief and curiosity, was also familiar.  
  
“He's worried about you, Sam. You need each other more than ever if we are to stand any chance.”  
  
“You think I don't know that, Cas? But you've seen the way he looks at me. He hasn't forgiven me. Can't forgive me. Look, can we not do this now? Let's just...are you ready? Can you take one more?”  
  
“Yes. I think so.”  
  
Dean squinted into the gloom of the barn and flinched as he heard Cas hiss out a pained breath.  
  
“Careful Sam! Not too deep.”  
  
Dean wasn't sure what he was hearing but it made him flush hot all over just the same. He still couldn't see his brother or the angel, so he stalked closer to the voices, keeping to the shadows, until he found himself a vantage point behind a stack of rotting hay bales.  
  
Castiel was reclining on a tatty old couch, chest bare, his trench-coat, shirt and tie balled up on the ground beside him. If he was cold, he didn't show it. He looked slight and all too human in the half-light. Sam knelt on the floor beside him, a bloodied pen knife in one hand, the other steadying Cas's pale right arm in a tight grip. He was lapping at a point somewhere on the inside of the angel's elbow, slick, pink flashes of tongue visible in the light thrown from a camping lantern on the dirt floor. Cas was clearly trying to keep his face impassive, but now and then, Dean would hear a particularly hard sucking noise and his forehead would furrow in pain.  
  
So this was new. His brother was drinking angel blood. Castiel's blood. Dean didn't know what to do with that. He tucked his gun away quietly.  
  
“Enough, Sam! Enough.”  
  
Cas pulled his arm back from Sam's grasp and rubbed at the place where his lips had been. Sam slumped back, blissed out expression on his face, his head resting on Castiel's thigh, and after a while, Cas began to stroke through his hair slowly, soothingly.  
  
“Better?” Cas asked, and Sam nodded, licking his lips.  
  
Dean's eyes were drawn to the way Sam's legs were splayed, the way the front of his jeans were tenting obscenely. His blood was thundering like white water in his ears.  
  
“This can't go on, Sam. We don't know what the long-term repercussions could be.”  
  
“I think you like it.”  
  
Sam's voice was slurred and he started to grab at his hard dick through his jeans, kneading it absently.  
  
“I don't know what you're talking about. This has nothing to do with what I like. I need you to -”  
  
Sam snorted, cutting him off.  
  
“You like me being dependent on you. You like the fact I have to come to you for this.”  
  
“Sam, I -”  
  
“That I have to keep it from him. You like punishing him. The way you look at him. God, Cas. I swear sometimes it's like he blind. I guess in a way he is. He can't see past me. You know that right?”  
  
Castiel's swallow was almost audible in the silence that followed, and Dean had to stop himself from clearing his own throat which felt parched and tight.  
  
“Yes,” the angel whispered. “I know it.”  
  
“Good,” Sam said, and Dean felt like he was falling.  
  
Castiel's voice, when it finally came, was stronger. More in control.  
  
“I need you clear-headed and together, Sam. In case you hadn't noticed, you and your brother have something of a mess to clean up.”  
  
Sam gave a nasty little laugh.  
  
“That's what I'm talking about, Cas. Yeah, it's my mess. But you helped me make it, so don't pull that holier than thou shit on me.”  
  
Dean watched, breathing shallow, as Sam continued to knead at his swollen cock through his pants. Cas either didn't see or didn't care, his fingers still making lazy swirls through his brother's hair. He held his tongue.  
  
“You're supposed to be above all this, but that just makes it worse, right? The further they fall, the bigger the bloody smear they leave on the sidewalk.”  
  
Sam laughed.  
  
“Sam. You're...intoxicated.”  
  
“Mmm,” Sam agreed. “'Cause you taste so good. Better than her. Better than all of them. Better than anything.”  
  
Dean suppressed a gasp as Sam caught Castiel's wrist in his huge hand and the blade flashed lightning quick. He made a swift nick to the inside and snaked out his tongue, chasing the crimson trickle. Cas groaned a little but made no move to stop him.  
  
Dean shivered as he watched Sam's mouth working, like a baby at the teat. He vaguely remembered Dad letting him give Sammy a bottle when he was a kid, his infant brother a squirming, surprisingly heavy bundle on his lap. A seemed a thousand lifetimes ago. Back then, Dean had only wanted to wrap his arms around his soft little body and keep him safe from harm. While he still felt that overriding need to protect him, there was none of that uncomplicated purity about Dean's feelings for his brother anymore. Life and death and insularity had shaped them into something unspeakable. Something which hung suspended between the twin beds in countless motel rooms, dark and silent, biding its time. At least, that's how it seemed to Dean.  
  
“He's always been the pretty one. The heartbreaker. He has our mother's eyes. Can you see him, Cas? Hmm?”  
  
Dean had to strain to hear, Sam's voice soft and shattered.  
  
“Around the jaw line? At the corners of my lips? Our mannerisms? Anything? Tell me.”  
  
Cas sighed heavily and let his head loll back against the couch. He left his hand draped over Sam's shoulder, Sam dipping his head now and then to nuzzle at the cut on the angel's wrist.  
  
“There's something about the eyes. Not the shape. Not the color. An intensity. You both have this look...”  
  
Dean stared as Sam rolled onto his knees and shoved Cas's legs apart, shuffling into the space between them.  
  
“What else?”  
  
“This cleft, here.”  
  
The angel touched a finger to Sam's chin, and Dean mimicked the action, absently feeling his own face.  
  
Cas sucked in a sharp breath as Sam started to tongue at his nipple and Dean felt light headed. He could hardly believe what he was seeing. He felt sick, but he was rooted to the spot, unable to look away from the spectacle of his brother touching the stoic angel, wringing those sounds out of him.  
  
It was disturbing, the way they kept talking. Making him complicit in whatever fucked up arrangement they had going here. It made him feel exposed. Raw and aching.  
  
“You're both so stubborn. Circling each other and butting heads, like wounded beasts.”  
  
Sam's laugh was smothered by Cas's chest. There were moist little sounds as he licked and sucked a path up to the angel's neck.  
  
“More.”  
  
“The way you walk. In perfect step, like soldiers.” A moan as Sam sank his teeth into the meat of his shoulder. “You don't even realize you're doing it.”  
  
“What else?”  
  
Sam was breathing hard, and Dean was ashamed to find himself hardening.  
  
“The way you moisten your lips. You both put your tongue inside the neck of a beer bottle before you close your mouth around it. It's in your hands. Your fingers. The way you touch each other habitually. The way you hold a weapon -”  
  
Sam chuckled again and Castiel lost his words. It took a heartbeat for Dean to realize it was because his brother had wormed a hand down the front of his pants. Dean's own cock twitched in empathy. He watched, stunned as Sam's arm began to move, a small up and down motion.  
  
“But that's all just genetics, right? Programming? He's not tainted like me. He wouldn't need this.”  
  
Sam's voice was small in the dank air of the barn.  
  
Castiel leaned forward to fix Sam with limpid blue eyes.  
  
“You think I give this lightly? That I'd turn my back on my brethren for so little? You are not some consolation prize, Sam. You and your brother are cast from the same mould. In all ways. The best of men.”  
  
Dean felt the impact even from his distance. Sam crushing his lips on Castiel's, the click of teeth, strong hands pawing and grabbing. He was vaguely aware that he shouldn't be here, shouldn't be watching his own brother and the angel he was coming to think of as family in this shockingly intimate act. But at the same time, he felt entitled. Like somehow he was a catalyst for this even though they were hiding from him. Shutting him out. It was twisted and perverted, but he was turned on and pissed off in equal measures.  
  
“Do it,” Sam mumbled into Cas's mouth, and rose to frantically pull his shirt open and off. Castiel stood and unfastened his pants.  
  
Dean stared, mouth slack and eyes glassy, as his brother stepped out of his boots, shucked his socks and jeans and stood in the filthy barn, naked as the day he was born. Cas was stood with his pants unbuckled and slung low on his hips, still wearing his shoes. Dean briefly worried that Sam could cut his foot. The white light from the lamp threw the planes and dips of their bodies into stark relief, Sam dwarfing the angel, although Dean knew Castiel could break every single bone in his brother's body in the blink of an eye.  
  
Sam padded around and looked back over his shoulder as he bent himself over the arm of the couch. In that moment, Dean realized what was about to happen and his stomach clenched with the urge to run over there and put a stop to this. At least that's what he hoped it was. A dark little whisper curled around his mind — you wish it was you about to give it to him, wish you were the one about to plow your brother. The irrational compulsion to cry washed over him again, and he took a few deep breaths, ignoring the way the cotton of his underwear was starting to feel tacky and cold in the spot where the head of his hard cock was steadily leaking into them.  
  
Cas pushed his pants down a little further, moving into position behind Sam and exposing the pale swell of his ass. He cupped a hand under Sam's mouth and Dean heard his brother spit. Dean couldn't see the mechanics from his hiding place, but there was no mistaking the long, winded, groan Sam let out as Castiel sank his length into the tight, saliva-slicked heat of his ass. Dean had taken women like this before. Only one or two — those drunk and kinky enough to ask for it — and his sense memory provided that phantom, almost painful squeeze around his throbbing dick. His hips hunched forward and he bit his lip hard.  
  
Dean watched Castiel's ass flex as he started to thrust, slowly at first, enthralled by the bizarre sight of the angel reduced to this most base and bestial of human of acts. Dean's pelvis tilted slightly with each pump of Castiel's hips, and he stifled a moan as Sam started to chant,  
  
“Yeah, yeah. Right there. Oh yeah. Harder. Make it hurt.”  
  
Every sound was amplified in the dark. The slap of flesh hitting flesh, the harsh breaths rasping out between Castiel's gritted teeth. The air being punched out of Sam's lungs with every brutal slam. Cas set a punishing pace, and Dean watched as Sam buried his face in the grimy old couch cushions, his babbling absorbed by them, hands clawed in the threadbare fabric.  
  
Dean lost sense of time, transfixed by the scene playing out across the barn. It wasn't until Sam turned his sweaty face to the side and spoke, that he snapped back into focus.  
  
“Say it,” he panted, words fractured as he was shunted by Castiel's thrusts. “Oh shit. Please, Cas. Say it. Call me by his name.”  
  
“Dean,” Cas moaned. “Oh, Dean. Dean!”  
  
Dean felt the muscles low and deep in his abdomen flutter. His balls pulled up taut, and his hips stuttered. His cock pulsed, and suddenly he was spilling hot and sticky in his underwear, soaking his jeans. Dean hadn't come untouched and unwanted since he'd seen his first skin flick at the tender age of eleven, the rush leaving him drained, confused and afraid he'd pissed in his pants. But the thought of his brother begging to be called by his name while an angel of the Lord — their angel — pounded him, hard and furtive, in a derelict barn was too much. It messed him up in ways he couldn't even begin to fathom.  
  
Dean looked over to see Castiel slumped over the limp body of his younger brother. They stayed that way for a few minutes while Dean tried to make his legs move. Sam winced when Cas pulled out, and then there was silence while they slowly retrieved their clothes and dressed. Dean knew he needed to make his escape while they were both still sluggish from the feeding and the dispersing fug of arousal. He backed away from the musty-smelling bales and quietly slipped out of the open door.  
  
When he got back to the car, Dean flung himself into the driver's seat, trying to forget about the discomfort as the sludgy come in his shorts cooled and dried, pulling at the downy hair on the inside of his thighs. He needed to get back to the motel, shower and then think very carefully about how he would broach this with Sam. It was a full minute before he realized he'd been sat, his hands gripping the wheel, without starting her up, breath fogging up the Impala's windows.  
  
His heart nearly stopped when the passenger door flew open, and he turned to find himself looking into his brother's eyes. His mouth opened and closed while he struggled to find the right words and a suitably irate tone, but Sam beat him to it.  
  
“I knew I wasn't imagining it. I could feel you in there.”  
  
Dean blinked in disbelief.  
  
“Sam, what the fuck are you doing out here? I've been driving around half the night -”  
  
“Don't bother, Dean.” Sam's smile was wan and tired. “I know you saw us. The sigils may hide you from Cas, but I always know where you are.”  
  
Dean swallowed and let the truth of that seep in. His shoulders sagged.  
  
“What's going on, Sammy? How the fuck did we get here?”  
  
Sam sank down onto the bench seat and slammed the door shut with a clunk.  
  
“Does it matter?”  
  
Dean thought about that for a while, closed his eyes when he felt Sam's head hard against his collar bone. He smelled blood on his breath. He was too damned wiped to make any judgment calls tonight. He turned over the engine, put her in drive and headed back for the motel and sleep and whatever daybreak would bring.

* * *

 


End file.
